Through Your Eyes
by WorldsGreatestDefective
Summary: After a routine bust, Batman, Nightwing, and the reluctantly-helpful Red Hood find themselves mysteriously witnessing the events of Jason's death and its immediate aftermath. Not just witnessing—completely reliving the "death in the family". Their beliefs about how the events unfolded and about each other are about to be blown to hell. Rated T for language and violence.
1. Chapter 1

**It's late and I had this random idea that was poking at the back of my head. Basically, I think a lot of grief could be put to rest of Bruce, Dick, and Jason all saw what the others went through during and following the Death in the Family arc. Of course, they never talk about it. This is my little solution to that. Going to be a two to three chapter story, from what I can tell.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything, and the dialogue from the "memory" is taken from the comics. I wanted to be as true to the original story as possible. Anyway, on to chapter one!**

* * *

How the hell he got sucked into a mission with Nightwing and Batman was beyond him. He was way too old for this shit. Okay, he was twenty-one, but mentally he just couldn't fathom tolerating either of them the way he had when he was thirteen. Not since his death, not since his resurrection, and certainly not since the family decided he somehow didn't have any sort of moral compass, let alone sense of real justice at all.

Short-sighted bastards.

Yet, there he was, strung in to help out since the Replacement and the Demon were busy doing who-the-hell-cared back in Wayne Manor, and Golden Boy apparently wasn't enough of a soldier on his own for myopic motherfucker, Bruce.

Of course, Jason had answered the call, much against his better judgment. He was supposed to be steering clear of the mess that was the bats. Paving his own way and living his own life. Aside from a drunk dial every now and then and some interrupted fights, he had been successful.

There were times he had entertained the idea of returning back "home". Whatever the hell kind of mess home was. Then, he came to his senses. Mostly, anyway. He blamed the pieces of him that didn't see reason for his presence there tonight. At least there wasn't a shortage of thugs to take his anger out on. Right when another rush of self-loathing filled him, he smashed his gloved hands into another gangster's face, effectively breaking his nose.

"Nice hit," Nightwing told him nearby.

Jason rolled his eyes, though it wasn't like his older "brother" would see it behind his helmet. A small price to pay for hiding his betraying emotions the rest of the time. Nightwing didn't stick around either way to see any response even if he could. Another group of thugs pushed its way forward. Nightwing smirked briefly before slamming his escrima sticked onto either side of one's head and lunging for another.

Show-off.

Batman had taken to dealing with the group's leader. The massive brick wall of a man was looking a little worse for wear, but Red Hood realized his former mentor wasn't much better. Without thinking, Jason ran forward, throwing his body into the obstacle ahead. He didn't think about Batman owing him or even showing up the man who had spent hours teaching him similar drills almost a decade ago. No, he just high-tailed it and collided with the meat head, keeping his shoulder perfectly positioned to do the most damage.

Okay, maybe he cared a _little_ if the other two survived the night. Not that he would say it out loud, especially without a drop of liquor in his system. He cared, and he hated that every time he thought he had quelled that part of him, it came back with just another team-up. That's all it took. Every time.

His shoulder crunched into the brick wall's ribcage, eliciting a deep yell from its target. Perfect hit. Too bad the wall was quick to recover, sending a sharp punch to Red Hood's side.

Damn it, that hurt!

Before he could retaliate, Batman seemed to find his strength, striking his opponent in the gut with a punch that could break concrete. Jason could practically hear it ricochet off the man's spine, and he doubled over, choking on his own rising bile.

"Nice hit," Jason said. He could swear he saw Nightwing smile out of the side of his helmet.

He could also swear he saw a smirk form just barely below the bat's cowl. As soon as it was there, it left, reverting back into a scowl as he continued to deal with the heap in front of him. Red Hood turned to teach more of his lackeys a lesson, pushing away the temptation to pull out his guns. His two compromises: no guns and no killing. Not tonight. Not in front of them, at least.

As the fighting continued, Jason wondered why he had been called on to help to begin with. Sure, there was a slew of half-cocked, ripped bastards with more of a death wish than most of their run-of-the-mill idiots. That didn't mean it was something Batman couldn't handle, especially with Nightwing's help. So why the three of them?

As if on cue, a pounding pain threatened to rip Jason's skull in half. He yelled out, holding his helmet as if it were the only thing keeping his head intact. A migraine unlike anything he had felt since the rush of pain from the Lazarus Pit screamed and pounded. He practically fell into the nearest column of the warehouse, barely supporting himself on shaky knees. Wave after wave of nausea washed over him.

What the fuck was this?!

He looked up to see Batman and Nightwing feeling the effects, too. Jason pushed himself off of the column, ready to launch at the thugs surely causing their pain or die trying.

Only, they were out cold on the floor beneath them. Even the brick wall was lying flat on his back, his mouth foaming like some rabid Saint Bernard that had been shot with an elephant dart.

"What the hell is going on?!" Jason managed to shout.

Nightwing yelled something incoherent in return. Or, maybe Jason just didn't have the mental capacity to understand whatever he had said. Either way, conversation seemed to be out of the question.

Red Hood was ready to knock himself out just to make the pain stop when image after image flickered through his head. It was like watching Tim shuffle through files on the Batcave computer. At first the pictures were blurry, passing one another too quickly for Jason to focus on any of them. Then, as the pain in his skull reached its pinnacle, the pictures became more focused.

_"…__Accepted the fact that I'd probably never see you again" _a voice said in his ringing ear.

Not just a voice. Her voice. Sheila's. Perfect, he had _just_ been thinking this day could really suck more. Nothing said "happy patrol" quite like a PTSD-induced hallucination. So much for the progress he had apparently been making.

_"__God, it must have been hard for you,"_ his younger self said.

He looked up to Nightwing and Batman to see if the same thing was happening to them. If they were reliving the less-than-stellar moments in their lives. They certainly looked pained, the lines around their mouths creased in deep scowls.

Except they were looking at him. Their eyes, hidden behind white-out eyelets, stared at him. Not just at him, through him.

"What the hell is going on?!" he shouted.

Another wave of skull-shattering pain ripped through him. Then his vision momentarily went black.

_"__You stay here and keep an eye on that warehouse until I return. Take no action until I get back. I repeat: no action!"_

Jason groaned, his eyes blinking back the spots that came with his rising consciousness. Awesome, apparently he was still in the warehouse. He didn't feel any ropes around him or any gaping wounds, so it was unlikely he had been taken anywhere by anyone. That was new considering he had just passed the hell out during a bust.

_"__Just for once, please listen to me, Jason!"_

What? Was that Bruce's voice? Oh, damn, he thought this had been over. The last thing he needed was to be on his face in some warehouse reliving his worst nightmare until he just passed out again. He felt the dirt on his face, pebbles digging deep into his cheek.

Wait, _face?_ He could feel dirt on his face? Where the hell was his helmet? Sickness rose in his stomach, reaching his throat until he felt his domino mask. Alright, that was still there. Fucking hell, at least he wasn't totally screwed.

So why the hell did he feel so out of sorts? He opened his eyes to see the light-brown dirt covering the ground where the concrete floor had just been. Though his head was still pounding, the pain began to die away as he processed the sight around him. No, this couldn't be right. He had been here before, but it had been years. Six years, in fact.

Of all places, he just had to be back in Ethiopia.

"Jason?"

The call came from just behind him, reaching his ears rather than out from his memories. The shock of it was the only thing to give him enough energy to turn around, facing the Batman he had come to know since his resurrection. The older, harder version. Slumped next to him was Nightwing, holding the side of his head like he had been hit in the temple by a two-by-four.

"Where are we?" Dick asked.

Bruce exchanged a look with Jason, the realization having already dawned on him. Though still lost, the knowledge that something was overwhelmingly, horribly wrong fell over Nightwing. He glanced around, trying to get his bearings. Jason almost felt bad for him. If this whole scene was going to play out just as it had in his nightmares, Dickiebird was in for an uncomfortable sight. If it continued on to the end, Bruce was in for a worse one.

He wasn't sure when it happened, but the shadows of voices that had long since passed moved from the narrows of his mind and out in the open. For a memory, this was one hell of a vivid one. And now Batman and Nightwing were privy to it.

Not Nightwing and Batman—Dick and Bruce. There was a flickering over all of their masks until, like a glitch in a video game, the eyelets fell away to reveal three pairs of vivid blue eyes. Their masks were still perfectly in place, but now they were seeing into the person behind the costume. It made what was going to happen so much worse, Jason realized.

He looked up and surveyed the shack he had been in so many times before in his dreams and in the depths of his panic attacks. It was like coming home to the worst part of himself, and this time he had company. Jason wasn't sure how or why, but there they were.

"We need to get out of here," Bruce said, the rest of his face still hidden behind the cowl. At least whoever was fucking with their minds was keeping their identities intact.

"Somehow, I don't think it's that easy, boss," Jason replied.

Voices rose just outside of the shack, familiar and foreign.

"Mom?" the first said.

"Jason?"

"You're in big trouble, Mom. I know all about it… the Joker… everything."

Just then, Dick turned to look at Bruce and Jason, his expression begging them to tell him this wasn't what he thought it was. Their silence confirmed it, and he clenched his jaw.

Jason wanted to punch him in it. He could practically see the self-righteousness making its way up Dick's stomach, filling his chest, holding his spine rigid. Jason knew what Dick thought about this day. What Bruce thought about this day. He didn't need them to see it, even if it would shove their ill-formed beliefs in their faces. This was sacred, and they didn't deserve it. Not after everything.

"Come on, Mom. Play straight with me. I can help you," the young teen's voice started up again just outside the door.

"Sure, tell me about it," she replied.

"Mom… there's a lot about me you don't know."

In the shack, the older Jason closed his eyes. Maybe this time, if he closed his eyes and thought hard enough, he could pretend like that never happened. Pretend like he had never revealed himself to her. Pretend like this was just another dream, but that this one could end differently for him.

No such luck.

"Come with me," Sheila said.

The door opened, revealing a blond woman with her hair curled at the nape of her neck, her white shirt clean and neatly pressed.

_Not for long_, the older Jason mused.

Dick and Bruce watched as the Robin-clad Jason entered the shack, his eyes scanning the area carefully. He looked so small now, just before puberty had allowed him to reach his full height and shape. Five-feet, four-inches, muscular but still slight from years of malnutrition. Was he really that small when it happened? Even Jason had a hard time believing it.

"You told her you were Robin?" Dick asked.

There was no accusatory tone. Just a question, his eyes watching the memory-pair wander into the structure.

"It was the only way I could think of telling her I could help. I hoped it was enough to let me convince her to get out of there," Jason answered.

"Instead, you took on the Joker," said Bruce.

A white-hot rage filled the youngest vigilante. "No, I didn't."

Bruce and Dick seemed ready to argue, or at least to ask what the hell he meant by the obvious lie, when they looked up to see Sheila taking the younger version of him into the corner of the shack. The fifteen-year-old version of him kept his eyes on trained on his mother, ready to jump to her aid at a moment's notice should she need it.

"Just step over here and you'll understand everything, Robin," she said.

He nodded, approaching the corner where medical supply boxes were stacked high. Syringes, gauze, and medical tape. Red Hood wanted to laugh. Ironic to die in a place meant to save lives.

The humor of the situation was short-lived. Together, the three modern-day intruders watched as Joker revealed himself and two of his thugs, a pistol pointed straight at Jason's chest.

"What?!" the teen exclaimed. "But you said…"

"I lied."

Her voice cut through the shack as her hand reached for a revolver of her own, training it on her young son. Red Hood could hear Dick's voice hitch, could see Bruce shifting out of the corner of his eye. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, their voices dulling like someone had pressed a pillow over him.

"Stirring up trouble… investigation…" they said.

"She betrayed you." Jason was surprised to hear the statement coming from Bruce. More than that, he was surprised to have it _sound_ like Bruce. Like the Bruce he knew before everything. Like the Bruce that would have trusted him before believing he was capable of some of the atrocities he immediately pegged him for now.

"Yeah. She did," he replied.

"Sorry about that, kid. Looks like you chose the wrong person to trust, this time," said Sheila. "What should we do with him?"

Joker's red lips curled over his yellowed sneer. "Something I've wanted to do for years."

Without warning, metal cracked against bone as Joker pistol-whipped the teenager across his cheek. Before the boy had a chance to process the strike, another joined it. It was all Bruce could take. Memory or not, the man lunged at the vision, more fiercely than he had attacked the wall of a man back in the warehouse. This wasn't Batman attacking, this was Bruce Wayne. This was a man who refused to watch the teenaged Jason get beaten in front of his eyes.

Except, there was nothing he could do to stop it. As he thrust his fists at the Joker, they sliced through him like a hologram. Thin air. It was all just thin air and bad dreams.

"WHO'S DOING THIS?!" Bruce yelled.

Nothing. Just the sounds of fifteen-year-old Jason's strangled yells. The older version barely registered Dick approaching his side, the young man's eyes trained on the vision he had never been a part of. It was only when the crowbar came out that Dick even blinked.

"This is going to hurt you a lot more than it's going to hurt me!" the Joker taunted.

Over and over, metal cracked against the breaking body of the fifteen-year-old. Each time, the older Jason winced. Each time, Dick pursed his lips together tighter, his eyes still focused on the carnage. Each time, a rippling yell escaped Bruce and he tried once more in vain to stop the abuse.

The beating was longer than Jason had remembered. Or was it shorter? He couldn't be sure. He doubted the heap of blood and broken bones even knew how much time had passed, or even what time was.

Maybe that was why he didn't hear the clock at first. He just saw spots mixed with visions of a crowbar and his mother smoking in the corner.

When the beating finally stopped, Jason heard Shiela shouting. Her words were muffled except for every few words. She was pleading; he could tell that much. The rest of it was lost to the thumping of his pulse and the sound of Bruce's yells.

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**Hope you enjoyed! Reviews would be really appreciated! If this wasn't pure insanity from a late night, then I'd be happy to continue. **

**-Defective**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2! Thank you all so much for all the wonderful reviews! I'm glad my late night ramblings were well-received! So, without any further ado, onward!**

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"I don't get it." The nasally voice broke his boss's concentration, earning him a glare so fierce he was sure he'd collapse right there had half of his mind not been so focused on the illusion he had to maintain.

"Elaborate," came the reply.

The weasel of a man swallowed, his throat suddenly inhumanely dry. "Why just the eyelets? We can reveal who they are right now. I mean, I get the torture bit, but why not expose them while doing it? Two birds, one bat?"

He let out an uncomfortable laugh, though quickly thought better of it when the other's eyes did not soften. In fact, the glare grew more intense. Damn it, why hadn't he just kept his stupid mouth shut? There was a short list of people who scared the psychic to his wit's end, and he was questioning one of the top three about their on-the-job skills. Idiot.

"It is not their identities I am after," his boss replied. "Now, focus."

Deep in the rafters, he nodded at the command and said nothing more about it. Identities he could wait for. Torture? Torture he could do.

* * *

They say it's impossible for someone to kill himself simply by holding his breath. The body's instinct to breathe overrides the will not to, and any attempts are quickly dashed without the assistance of weights and a deep body of water.

Fight or flight. Jason had both in spades.

Yet, here in his hell, he felt like he was drowning. It took him far too long to realize he had been holding his breath, but even the quick intake of air did not relieve the tightness in his chest or the overwhelming panic that made his stomach turn.

"—Little Wing."

Christ, he hadn't been called that in _years_.

The nickname rang through him, surprising him and halting his panic just long enough for him to turn around to face the source. While Bruce was busy trying to stop the vision at all costs, Dick had moved to crouch beside Jason. Up close, Jason could see the pure concern radiating from Dick's brilliant blue eyes. God, when was the last time he had looked at him like that? Like a mentor or older brother rather than an… enemy? Was that what they had become? He couldn't be sure anymore.

"Jason, you shouldn't see this."

"You're forgetting I'm the only fucking one who's already seen this episode, Goldie," he shot back. His voice lacked its usual bite, his breathing escaping in short, sharp puffs.

In front of them, the beating was nearing its end, but Jason knew the worst was still coming. As the sounds in the shack had heightened to a dull roar, he found he could still feel every hit just as they had landed six years earlier. First his cheek, his ribs, then his side, moving on to his stomach, his jaw, then his nose. Every thud and every crunch of the crowbar sent a new wave of pain through the trembling man.

"I know you've seen it," said Dick. He placed a gentle hand on his back, as if forgetting the last few years where the mere thought of one touching the other would be akin to pouring acid into one's throat. "You don't need to see this again."

"_You_ don't need to be watching it at all," Jason snapped back.

Dick took the lack of curses as a sign that, at least on some level, the younger man appreciated the sentiment. He had never been able to read Jason quite as well as the younger Robins. That, he realized, was somewhat on him. If he had spent more time with Jason before this brutal beating took place—

The elder bird shook the thought from his mind. There was no point in dwelling on that now. Not when their mentor was now ballistic in his hunt for the source of this misery and his efforts to stop the vision entirely.

Dick turned back to his wayward brother. "I'm watching _you_ right now," he said.

"What the hell for?" Jason shot back.

"Because it doesn't take a damn detective to know you shouldn't be watching yourself die."

His tone had been harsher than he intended. He blamed it on the particularly nasty swipe Joker had just made against Jason's windpipe and the unholy yell that had just erupted from a half-crazed Bruce. "Close your eyes."

"That won't make it go the fuck away!" Jason shouted.

"Neither will watching it, but it can't hurt to stop looking at it. Close. Your. Eyes."

"…I can't."

Without warning, Dick placed his gloved hand over Jason's mask before watching their mentor battle the demons he could never grasp. The crowbar crashed against the small teen only a few more times, but each one sent a wave of anguish through Batman. At the moment, Dick doubted Bruce even realized he was battling a phantom.

"Well, it's been fun." Joker's taunting sent a chill down Dick's spine. "But I better be going now. Oh, one last thing…"

Sheila's eyes darted between Joker and his henchmen, soon realizing their gaze was on her. Dick cursed himself for feeling some disgusting sense of justice for what he knew was coming. Quickly, he quelled the sensation, but even after he could not force himself to feel _bad_ for the woman. What kind of person could stand by and have a smoke break while her young son was being beaten to death in front of her eyes? No, Dick would not allow himself the cruelty of celebrating her death, but he could not allow pity or compassion, either. Not for her. Not for this.

With each second that ticked by, Dick felt Jason's breathing becoming more and more rapid. A panic attack. While Dick wasn't as accustomed to them as some members of them family, he was well aware of their effects. There was no mistaking what was happening beside him, and no blame for it happening at all.

Sheila's screams carried around them until it was replaced by harsh sobs. Joker watched by the door as his henchmen tied her up, her arms bound behind one of the support columns, her body slumped against the splintered wood.

"Make him stop," the elder Jason managed.

He sounded so small. Five-feet, four-inches and fifteen-years-old, if Dick had to guess.

"Joker?" he asked.

The clown had stopped, but even in the depths of his hysteria Jason had to know Dick couldn't control a memory.

"Batman. Make him fucking _stop_."

Dick looked up to see Bruce still trying to take control of the vision. The guttural sounds escaped their wild mentor added to the brutal soundtrack around them. It certainly wasn't helping Jason's mental state.

"Batman!" Dick shouted.

It took several attempts at his name for Bruce to even register he was being called to. For a brief moment, white-hot rage filled his every feature. Then his eyes landed on Jason. _His_ Jason. Instantly his expression relaxed, and he approached the young vigilante like one may approach a wounded animal. Careful, quiet, cautious of his every movement.

"Ja—Hood. Look at me," Bruce ordered.

Jason's jaw clenched as Dick's hand fell away from his eyes. For a moment, there was only the sounds of Sheila's sobs and teenaged Jason's rattled breathing. So close. The end was so close. And, yet, each aching moment just made everything so much worse.

Red Hood wanted to punch something. Shoot something. _Kill_ someone. No, not someone. Joker. He wanted to raise hell and allow the darkness that had threatened him since his return to take over. Maybe then the hysteria and pain would stop.

Except, it wouldn't, and he fucking knew it. That didn't mean it wouldn't save someone else from this misery. Damn it all to hell, but mostly damn the evil, death-worshipping clown. Jason's muscles continued to tense, his limbs trembling from the anxiety and anger that had enveloped him like a vice.

"Hood," Bruce tried again. Briefly, he and Dick exchanged a glance. If they didn't pull the younger bird back soon, they could lose him. More than now, perhaps more than when he first returned to the world and had his alleged rejection thrust upon him.

With another silent step, Bruce knelt down by his lost son, his hand pressing against Jason's back in the same spot Dick's had been minutes earlier. Though there was no warmth radiating thanks to the protective glove, he hoped the steadiness and strength of it would help ground the young man.

For a while, it worked. His fingers pressed into Jason's tense spine, wordlessly assuring him they were there.

Then, as Jason's memory continued, they began to hear a low beep. Soft and rhythmic, it filled the shack around them. The teenage Jason rose from the heap he was in, crawling toward Sheila. Her cries halted save for an occasional sniffle. Together, the woman and the intruders witnessed the bloodied child approach the source of the noise.

"Jason?!" Sheila's sobs hitched. "You're alive!"

_No fucking thanks to you_, thought Dick.

The teenager struggled with every breath, clawing his way toward the beeping. Once he made it, he practically collapsed on top of the metal casing, his head barely raised above the changing numbers on the screen.

"It's… a bomb," he managed, breathless.

Sheila's breathing rose in terrified, rapid breaths. "Stop it!"

"I… I can't.… Not… not enough time…."

His mother watched as his hands, caked in dirt and blood, felt the wires and metal shell of the bomb. Bruce eyed it from a distance, noting the intricacies of the design. Guilt-ridden thoughts rushed through him at a million miles an hour, each one worse than the last. If he had just trained him more with explosives, if he had just gotten there earlier to diffuse it himself, if he had just been there at all…

The hand that rested on Jason's back curled as Bruce's own anxiety and anger flowed. Dick watched as the pair prepared, knowing what was just minutes away.

Two minutes and seven seconds, to be exact.

"I… I can… get you out," the boy tried.

Summoning his last ounces of energy, young Jason forced himself upright, shaking fingers working their way through the knots holding his mother to the beam. The beeping around them seemed to get louder as the impending end approached. Slowly, painfully, the teenager managed to untie Sheila's binds. With his last ounces of energy expended, he crumpled there by the beam, his body trembling from the pain and shock overtaking him.

"Jason," Sheila says, glancing down at her broken son. "We need to get out of here."

Bruce and Dick watched as she tried to raise the boy. Batman tensed at the sight of the woman putting her hands on Jason after she just contributed to his pain. His jaw clenched and unclenched, and Dick knew the other Jason's presence and strained breathing were the only things keeping the man rooted on the spot.

"Batman, you shouldn't be watching this, either," Dick said firmly.

His mentor glared at him, and he thought briefly there were now two ticking time-bombs in the shack. Perhaps three, depending on where Jason's mind was taking him.

Carefully, Dick continued. "You shouldn't watch him die."

"I'm clearly alive now, Dickieboy," Jason shot back between rapid gasps.

The elder brother knew the effort it took for Jason to speak as the clock wound down. He was doing it for Bruce. Almost everything he did was for Bruce in one way or another, he realized. To teach him a lesson, to earn his approval.

To receive his forgiveness.

Dick prepared to respond, but the scene from Jason's memory interrupted him.

"It's locked!" Sheila shouted.

Teenage Jason leaned against her, his body bent in awkward angles as he lay slumped by the door of the shack. At his mother's exclamation, resignation fell over the teen's face. The clock continued to count down, closer and closer to zero.

"I'm sorry…" the boy whispered. His eyes were closed, his face tilted away from his mother. Dick glanced toward his own Jason, the angry man he had turned into, and saw only resolve and profound sadness.

"I'm sorry," the teen said again. His mother continued to try the door, banging her fists against it and beating at the handle. Jason's attention was somewhere else and, Dick realized, on _someone_ else. "Thanks for everything.… Goodbye."

Three seconds on the clock. Bruce moved his hand from Jason's back to his shoulder, holding him steady as the young man began to shake in earnest. Two seconds. Dick placed his hand on Jason's other shoulder, wishing once again that he had been there the first time around. Maybe then Jason wouldn't have felt the need to run to someone who so easily betrayed him, solely because she was his mother. Maybe he would have realized he already had a family, and blood meant nothing.

One second. Both Jasons curled, bracing for impact. Bruce moved closer to the one he hoped he wasn't too late to help, pulling his cape around the trembling young man. In the memory, the teenager rose with his last bit of strength, throwing himself between his mother and the bomb.

Zero.

A blinding light followed by ear-splitting noise erupted around them. They couldn't feel the heat and the debris passed through them as Batman's fist had done to Joker moments earlier. An illusion. All an illusion.

And, yet, Jason screamed in agony. His memory, still so vivid, lit up his nerves. Every inch of him remembered the searing pain before cold nothingness took over. His throat ripped open into a brutal howl, and this time Bruce outright held him. Dick watched the fire die down around them, casting shadows on the deep creases along his mentor's face. Bruce had never looked so old before; Jason had never looked so small.

"It's okay. I've got you," Bruce said.

Though Jason didn't respond, his breathing evened out just slightly and his muscles began to relax. Over and over, Bruce reassured Jason that he was there and everything would be all right. Even as the bright sun of Ethiopia poured over them in the remains of the shack, the father continued to console his son.

For a while, the only sounds around them were the crackling of fire and collapsing debris. Then, in the distance, footsteps approached. Heavy and frantic, they rushed into the ruins.

Batman, younger than Dick could remember him ever being, raced through the rubble. Frantic, he searched the scarred earth, his eyes scanning in every direction.

"Robin!" he called. Dick sensed both men beside him go rigid. When the call rang out again, Jason looked up, watching the scene as his chest rose and fell in rapid beats.

The first form found lying in the debris was Sheila's. Her body-wracking coughs and shallow breaths caught Batman's deft ear. He ran to her, shoving broken wood and medical supplies away.

"He… he tried to save me," she managed.

The Batman ahead of them looked proud, the one beside them even more so.

"You tried to save her," Bruce repeated. "Even after everything she did."

"She was my mother and a victim," said Jason, his voice heavy with emotion. "That's all there was to it. Didn't make a fuck all bit of difference in the end."

"It made a world of difference," Bruce insisted. "You died a hero."

_You died a child_.

"Better than I lived," Jason replied.

Bruce's hold grew tighter. "Just like you lived. Jason, you've always been selfless. Sometimes I'm still surprised by just how much. You have always been willing to break if it meant keeping someone else together."

"Poetic, but false."

"Jason…" Bruce sighed, though whatever thought he had died in his throat. There was no need in keeping up with the secret identity. Not in Jason's memory. Whoever was doing this clearly knew who the young man was by now, and Bruce had no desire to keep calling him Red Hood. Not here.

Jason slumped as he watched Sheila die beneath Batman, his efforts to save her wasted. He closed his eyes, at first to say whatever kind of prayer he had in him, but only vile curses rose within him.

Neither Batman, however, did not have time for prayers or curses. The memory continued, the bat combing the area another minute or two until he found his last target. There, covered in blistered skin, blood, and dirt, lay the cooling body of a boy. He reached out and touched his wrist, his frown only deepening.

"Jason," Batman breathed out. "No…"

The intruders watched as he lifted his broken bird into his arms, the teen's limbs hanging awkwardly. Dick looked away. After all the fighting, the anger, the pain this incident had unleashed, he found himself understanding why. Seeing the teen—his younger "brother", he reminded himself—hanging there lifeless. Seeing Bruce looking so destroyed. It ripped through him, tearing a hole in his chest.

It took every ounce of resolve he had to look back up. He needed to see this. After so many times of not being there, then and now, he owed it to both of them to see the source of the fallout.

In spite of the evidence, Batman tried once more to check for any sign of life. A pulse, a breath, anything. When none came, he held his son tighter to him, his arms wrapping protectively around him. He stayed there for what felt like an eternity, just cradling his boy to him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into his dead son's ear. It wasn't the whisper of the Dark Knight or some cold vigilante. Jason stared at the scene before turning to the man still holding onto him, realizing then it was the voice of a father forced to bury his child.

He opened his mouth, unsure of what to say or where to begin. Just as a thought came to him, another wave of skull-splitting pain. This time, Bruce bore the brunt, his teeth bearing down so hard he thought they might crack.

Another blinding light burst around them, then nothing.

* * *

**There you have it! Hope you all enjoyed!**

**-Defective**


	3. Chapter 3

**Another late-night writing session for me! Apologies for the delay on this; it's been some very busy weeks recently! But, now, perhaps things will settle for a bit and I'll have more time to write.**

**Quick note I may or may not have said before: there are a ton of comics and a lot of not-actual-order going on in them. I do the best I can with what they have. **

**Just a couple more chapters after this one, I think. Debating on adding to it later, but we'll see where it takes me. Either way, hope you enjoy where this chapter takes us!**

* * *

Jason was never the type to do drugs, but he had the strangest feeling this was what a really bad acid trip was like. Hallucinations and bright colors mixed with the quickest blips of complete, coherent images. Still, he supposed he at least was faring better than his mentor this time around. Over the years, he had seen Bruce deal with more severe injuries than all the street thugs Red Hood had put down put together. Including the ones that thought it was smart to argue with a guy carrying an AK-47.

Yet, there the man was, clenching his jaw as if his every nerve were screaming. The only thing Jason could figure was the pain was akin to Bruce being water-boarded, in an electric chair, while his fingernails were being peeled off. That was about the only other circumstance his former mentor/father figure would express so much agony.

Blessedly soon the images stopped. He was sure he had seen a few of Bruce becoming reckless, but surely it was just another hallucination. Nothing, _nothing_, could make the big, bad bat reckless. Least of all Jason's death.

Except that was the only common thread through each of these nauseating images rushing through their minds. Jason—or at least events surrounding his death—passed through each and every sickening display. Pictures of white lilies, a casket, and Barbara and the commissioner sitting beside Bruce as the waxed wooden box was lowered into the ground. Later Bruce watching Alfred close off his bedroom with the desk still holding the beginnings of his book report on _The_ _Grapes of Wrath _and Bruce changing some of the passwords to "chilidog".

It was like a montage from a bad made-for-TV drama.

Each memory became exponentially worse. For a few of them, Jason was positive he had to be drugged, drunk, or both. He could swear he just saw Bruce try to punch out Superman. Who the hell in their right mind tried to punch out Superman, the Man-of-fucking-Steel? The idea that Bruce hadn't been in his right mind after Jason had died entered his thoughts, but he quickly pushed it away. He was a soldier, a Robin in an endless line of bird-brained sidekicks. That was all.

He shook off the thought to see the memory change. Now, Dick and Bruce stood in the cave, the first staring daggers at the latter, the latter straining to ignore the first. The memory was quick, fuzzy, but something in the Bruce beside him made him wonder if this was a scene he was choosing to move on from more than most. The lines were blurred like the others that were rushing by far too quickly to get full pictures of, but this one… this felt different.

Together, they watched the scene become increasingly tense. Then, though it was quick and the voices were lost in a muffled hum, Jason sat amazed as Bruce reared back in the vision and punched Dick square in the jaw.

Okay, _that_ was surprising. Though his nerves were still on edge from his memory of the explosion, he ignored their screaming to glance between his mentor and his predecessor. If it weren't for the looks the other two were giving each other, Jason would have thought he had imagined the whole thing. Richard Grayson was the firstborn; the pride and joy of their adoptive father. There was no way he'd ever be dealt a sucker punch to the face.

The Dick and Bruce he now knew exchanged an awkward look between them, Dick squaring his now-intact jaw as Bruce's often-clouded eyes reflected something akin to… shame? No, that couldn't be right. Bruce Wayne was never ashamed of himself.

"What the hell was that about?" Jason asked.

Bruce held his temples, though whether it was due to the question or the slowly-dulling pain was beyond him. The wayward vigilante looked back toward Dick. He couldn't make Bruce talk, but Dick… Dick he had a better chance with. Even after all this time, even after all the water that had flooded their proverbial bridge, Jason still knew his "big brother". After witnessing the explosion that had taken Jason's life, the circus freak was putty.

"Just a disagreement," Dick offered.

"Let me guess: about how you knew I wasn't ready to be Robin and I ran in there without knowing any better. I got what I deserved, right?"

A dark look overcame Dick, but before he could answer the images slowed. Once again, Joker stood before them, though the scenery had changed. All side comments Jason had were lost as he stared at his assailant, his body rigid.

He wanted to throw himself at the memory and rip it apart with it bare hands. He wanted to tear every inch of the man down piece by filthy, death-loving piece. Worst of all, though, Jason could still feel the waves of pain from the explosion and wanted nothing more than to find somewhere the Joker couldn't touch him. It was cowardly. Disgusting. The mere thought of it brought bile rising into his throat.

He clenched his fists and swallowed hard. Fuck the Joker. He could handle whatever the hell kind of mem—

"Jason. Todd."

Batman's unmistakable growl halted Jason's rising emotions, rooting him on the spot. There in the illusion Batman grabbed the back of Joker's atrocious purple coat, pulling him by the collar with such force it was surprising he didn't break his neck.

"Jason. Todd," he repeated.

This time, gloved knuckles crunched against the villain's jaw, sending him backward. Before Joker could literally see what hit him, another punch had him flying a few feet before crashing to the ground. Again and again Batman rained punch after horrible, bone-crushing punch to the villain. And, again and again, he just spoke those two words.

"Jason! Todd!"

Each statement became tougher, more strangled until it was little more than a growl, thick with emotion. Only blind rage was evident over the bat's mouth that lay uncovered by the cowl. His face had aged so much, so quickly by the loss of a child—his child.

Of course, the revived Jason was too far lost in his own feelings to register this fact as he watched the chaos unravel in front of him. Where the blinding pain of the bomb had lit up his nerve endings mere moments ago, it took just a few seconds of the scene playing in front of him for the pain to dull and the ringing in his ears to stop. His focus, previously hazy, was now pinpointed on the fight a mere few feet away.

This was what he had wanted. Why hadn't anyone told him this had happened? Sure, he knew the Joker was still going to be alive and well by the end of it, but seeing Bruce beat the ever-living hell out of the monster helped alleviate some of the anger he had caged in his chest, even years later. On and on the fight continued, and Jason stared unblinkingly at the spectacle. With each passing second, his face turned further up into a smirk.

Fucking bastard deserved this. And more, obviously, but the sight of him stumbling at the force of Batman's unrestrained strikes, the guttural sound of his cries, made Jason feel something he couldn't quite define. Justice? No, he had felt justice before. Sick pleasure? Maybe. Pride? No, he wasn't the one doing the beating.

"JASON TODD!" Batman yelled once more, and it was then that Jason realized what it was. He wasn't just witnessing his pseudo-father figure avenge his death. Though now he realized some avenging actually _had_ actually occurred, even if it hadn't been permanent. No, this was darker than that. More brutal than that.

More than seeing Bruce deal justice for Jason's loss, they were watching a man lose his mind. While Joker looked increasingly worse for wear, it was Batman that was taking the brunt of the damage. In spite of the white eyelets of the Dark Knight's cowl, Jason was positive he could see a deranged look in Bruce's eyes as he continued to beat the villain into a bloody pulp.

Hadn't this been what he had wanted all along? Hadn't Jason fought for this? Nearly died to see this scene play out? Well, here it was. The whole event had happened already without Red Hood's planning and dramatic orchestrations. The years of pain over never seeing Bruce care about his death and here they were, watching a man fall apart.

A man that had been forced to bury his son. Now, Jason could see, he was damn determined to bury himself, as well.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jason asked, turning to face the stoic vigilante at his side. "What is this?"

"What do you think it is?" he asked.

"What the hell about your damn code? Your 'moral compass' bullshit, huh? What the fuck is going on here? You're killing him!"

Dick shifted next to him, reminding the other two that they had another visitor to their hell. "Isn't this what you wanted?" he asked.

Jason spun his head around so fast he nearly got whiplash. "Don't. Fucking. Start."

He half-hoped Dick _would_ start something. Maybe then he would be distracted from the man transforming into a rabid animal in the fight before his eyes. It would certainly help him ignore the awkward feelings bubbling about the man sitting stock-still next to him. And, perhaps if Dick started a fight, Jason wouldn't have to admit how _right_ the golden boy was.

He had wanted this. For years, he had been preparing for Bruce to hand Joker's pasty, pale ass to him.

Not like this.

"Stop it." The words escaped him before he realized they had even reached his throat.

Nothing happened. Dick sat there, part of him clearly fuming from the images he had witnessed, part of him torn in several directions thanks to the men he was forced to share the images with. Bruce, on the other hand, sat like a statue, his face unmoving from the deep frown pasted over it.

It was all so fucking annoying.

"Stop it!" Jason yelled, standing up and towering over Bruce.

This time Bruce did move. Though, as he slowly rose to his feet and reminded Jason of their height difference, part of the young vigilante wished he hadn't.

"What is it you want me to stop, Jason?"

"This!" he yelled, waving behind him. "Whatever the hell this is!"

"I can't stop what has already happened, Jason. If it didn't work earlier, it won't work now," he said.

Jason sat there, staring at him. How could Bruce be so calm now? He had been a raving lunatic just minutes earlier when Joker turned all "1980s, thug life, after school special" on his ass. Now the man was pulling whatever calm, Tibetan crap he preached around the cave whenever his teenage followers dealt with too many hormonal outbursts.

Perhaps because he had been forced to realize the entire situation was out of his control. Jason had understood that earlier when he had watched his teenage self die. He knew what was going to happen and understood he was powerless to stop it. This time, seeing a memory he had never been a part of, he couldn't help but wonder if he could do anything to make it end differently. Maybe if he were there this time, he could change things.

Only he couldn't. All Jason could do was sit there with the stoic bat and increasingly silent bird while Batman descended into madness in front of them.

Never before did Jason think he would be so happy to see the big, blue boy scout drop out of the sky. At this point, what was left of the Joker was now a heap of cracked bones, blood, and smeared white and red makeup. He had the disturbing appearance of an abused child's doll, yet none of it seemed to put an end to Batman's assault.

"Jason Todd!" he just continued to scream. Even as Superman pulled Batman away from the mess he had created, he just yelled the name over and over until words faded into that same low hum they had arrived with. Soon, the scene faded, replaced once more by a mess of flashing images.

Jason stared ahead, though didn't comprehend anything flickering past them. A time or two he swore he saw the Replacement, but his focus was now fully on the man beside him. Now, only brief soundbites of Bruce's memory reached him as he watched his father figure sit there, staring into his own memories.

_"__He liked girls, cars, neapolitan ice cream, and the color green…"_

_"__I wanted what any father would want for his son. I wanted him to be happy. I allowed him to have hope, and it killed him."_

Snippet after snippet flooded their minds as Jason watched Bruce age, but that sadness as he discussed Jason never left his eyes. It changed, morphed into scar tissue that created distance between him and everyone else, but it never truly left.

Finally, the images stopped one more. The Batcave looked empty. Everything was silent except for the occasional squeal of a bat over head. Jason wondered momentarily if they had broken Bruce and he had just gone to his happy place, then he saw the computer screen in the cave flicker. The mugshots shuddered on the screen before disappearing entirely into blackness. They saw the chair at the computer move and reveal a figure rising from the oversized, overteched throne.

Stretching, he pushed away from his work station and headed up to the main entrance, toward the stairs that would lead up through the grandfather clock. Jason had taken that same walk so many times he could practically recall the number of steps from the computer to the Wayne Manor hallway.

Expecting the memory-Bruce's footprints to verify his beliefs, he waited and listened until the figure stopped in front of a glass case. No, _the_ glass case.

Once he had heard of the damn thing, Jason had seen it as a sort of… shrine to his failure, like a general putting up a map of the place he had failed to conquer. Jason was nothing more than a reminder of what he couldn't save, and it drove him deeper into his journey for justice. The youngest looked over to Dick and realized part of his older brother had felt the same way, but there was something else in his expression that told him it went beyond that.

Not that Jason felt he should be surprised anymore. Tonight was so full of the damn things he thought he should prepare for a damn piñata to appear.

He sat there, breathing quiet but steady, as the younger Bruce stared at his old Robin costume. Then, the man place his hand on the glass case. "Goodnight, Jason," he said.

Jason waited for it: the inevitable post-death, "this is your fault, look at how tortured I am," speech to start, but nothing. Instead, the other Bruce just stood there, staring at the costume for a moment before pulling away and heading back up to bed.

"Why would you do that to yourself?" Jason asked after a long stretch of silence. Even Dick pulled his eyes away to turn toward their Bruce at the question.

"Do what?"'

"Keep my costume hanging there. Torture yourself with my failure."

Bruce sighed, pressing his thumb and index finger into the corners of his eyes for a moment. "I wasn't torturing myself with your failure."

"Then what the hell were you doing?"

"I was remembering my son."

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**There you have it! Just a bit more to go before we're all on the same(ish) page. I guess we'll see how everyone handles it soon enough. Hope you all liked it!**

**-Defective**


	4. Chapter 4

The ability to hide one's emotions came easily, if not naturally, to the members of the Bat family. Whether it was instilled at birth or learned at an early age, they had each come by it honestly. Of course, there were different levels of this ability, and different triggers that would push them far past their ability.

Jason had just hit his.

Watching himself get tortured and blown to bits was one thing. Witnessing the horror his adoptive father had become was another. He had asked for that, after all. In fact, looking back now he could see he had thrown a psychopathic temper tantrum akin to a baby serial killer going ballistic over the whole daddy-doesn't-love-me-enough issue. However, seeing how utterly broken Bruce had become felt like a stab in his heart, and he had to crouch back down and brace himself against the floor to keep from allowing the waves of emotion from toppling him entirely.

Bruce crouched down beside him, pulling off his glove and placing his strong hand against the back of Jason's neck. He opened his mouth to speak, though Jason could see in the man's eyes how much he was struggling for the right words to say. It never ceased to amaze the young man how Bruce Wayne could deliver a brilliant speech in front of hundreds, even thousands, of awed onlookers, but he found heart-to-hearts with his kids to be nerve-wracking.

Just as it seemed he had found the right words, another blast of pain burned through their skulls. This time, it was Dick that yelled the loudest before forcing himself to scream behind his teeth, minimizing the sound. Jason wanted to tell him that muffling the noise didn't necessarily make it sound less horrific, and they all already knew what it felt like. Unfortunately, he couldn't remember the English language at the moment.

More images, more sound bites, played around them. What in the hell Dickiebird would have to say or think about this whole thing was beyond Jason. Up to now he thought the other man would be nothing more than a spectator.

As the pain died down, the voices became clearer. _"You didn't think I'd care that you took my costume, my name that my parents gave me, and just gave it to someone else?"_

_"You weren't Robin anymore. I needed a partner."_

_"Robin wasn't yours to give away!" _

Ah, the resentment part of this torture. Jason turned to look at Dick who was now holding his head, focusing as much as he could on the sight in front of him. Yet, as the scene continued to morph, Jason didn't remember the resentment in the beginning. Dick hadn't exactly been a huge presence, but he hadn't been quite as absent and bitter as he thought now that they were staring at his mental slideshow.

The first clear scene had Nightwing ("Nice costume, Dickie. I forgot about that one.") and Robin ("At least I had upgraded to pants, Jay.") on a roof during a routine stakeout. The three present heroes sat on a nearby roof, mildly surprised at how well they could see and hear everything. Then again, after everything, it wasn't the strangest thing that had happened. At this point, they figured they were in hell or someone was getting their rocks off on emotional torture, and they could only sit there and bear it.

On the other roof, a teenaged Nightwing prepared for action. "All right, so what we need to do is—"

"I'm fine!" Robin snapped. "I don't need to be told what to do by the guy who left me to fill his cape!"

"Relax, this isn't a competition."

"Sure it is. Life is a competition."

"Damn. What a little…" the elder Jason trailed off. Had he really been that much of an ass?

"What a little…" muttered the younger Nightwing before following after his successor.

They continued to descend, though Dick realized they were wasting precious time simply bouncing from roof to roof. "There's a quicker way," he told the boy.

Robin prepared to throw a snarky comment back, but the allure of getting this whole "gauntlet" or whatever business done quickly (and, hopefully, better than Dick had done years earlier) kept his mouth shut.

"You ever surf the trains?"

Robin quirked an eyebrow. "You mean, like those stoner idiots that try to ride them without holding onto the poles?"

"I mean riding on top of them," he said.

Before Robin could reply, the sound of an approaching train rang through the night air. Nightwing smirked, and Robin watched as he expertly flipped onto the top of the metal beast. The present Jason could still remember his thoughts throughout the evening, especially when he watched Nightwing flip around or do anything remotely impressive. Outwardly, he thought he could do it, too, and do it better. Inwardly? Well…

Robin jumped onto the train, though his left foot slipped and he lost his balance. His stomach was in his throat as his body slipped from the train car. He was going to die. He just knew it…

"Whoa there, Little Wing," Nightwing said, grabbing Robin's cape and hoisting him up to safety. "Careful. Safety first."

"Whatever," the boy said as soon as he was properly situated.

The young man he had become turned to his savior as Dick staring unblinkingly at the scene before them. "Thanks for that, by the way."

"Any time, Little Wing."

Jason could swear he sensed Bruce smile beside him, but as quick as he turned to look, it was right back to a scowl. Figured.

Together, they watched as the new and former Robins made their way to the bust, any ill feelings forgotten as the mission took over. Whether it was training or some strange chemistry, they didn't know, but in spite of the baggage they worked well together. Whenever Nightwing shoved a guy, Robin was ready to punch his lights out. Any time Robin kicked one of the thugs out, Nightwing was ready to restrain him.

As Jason remembered now, the whole fight had been kind of… fun. For the first time that evening, his anxiety eased as he watched their younger selves turn into a well-oiled machine of martial arts, acrobatics, puns, and barbs.

"What do you think, Mr. Nightwing? I think these guys could use some attitude adjustment!" the preteen laughed.

"Adjust away, Mr. Robin!"

In a matter of moments, the slew of gangsters were subdued and tied up. Wordlessly, the youths grappled away, flipping across a few roofs for speed and perhaps a little to show off. Boys would be boys. Boy heroes even more so.

When they were far enough away from the scene, an awkward silence settled over them. Even witnessing it, Dick and Jason exchanged a look, the memory suddenly fresh as yesterday.

"You know… I coulda handled that all by myself back there," Robin said, his small frame puffing up.

Nightwing just shook his head. "I know. Just figured there was no harm in helping. Remember, you don't have to go alone."

"_He_ does…"

"Yeah, but it's easier when you have a team."

Robin nodded, his right hand reaching to toy with his cape. Nightwing watched him for a bit before pulling a piece of paper and a pen from the small stores at his side, scribbling something down. "Here," he said, soon holding it out to the boy. "If you ever need someone to talk to, just call me. I've been through this and I know Batman isn't the easiest person to talk to sometimes."

"If he talks at all," Robin mumbled.

"Exactly. If you need anything or just want to vent, call. I'll be there."

"Sure. You mean that now…"

"I mean that always, Little Wing."

With that, the scene began to change once more a deep fogginess overcoming the young heroes until more warped pictures and voices pushed through the haze.

"I meant what I said," Dick said suddenly.

Jason sighed beside him, rubbing his temples. "I know you did. Should have taken you up on it more. Just sometimes thought that asking for help…"

"Meant you were showing weakness? Yeah, I get it."

Though no one said anything, Jason could feel the guilt rising over Bruce. The communication issues within their little clan began and were perpetuated by him. If he had just been more open with his adoptive sons, if he had forgotten his pride long enough so Dick and Jason could develop a better relationship in the beginning, perhaps none of what happened later would have happened at all.

"Stop it," Jason snapped.

Bruce turned a bat glare toward his second son. "Stop what, Jason?"

"That brooding blame thing you're doing. It's bullshit and it's useless, so stop it."

A low growl escaped Bruce's throat, but Jason was thankful another scene took over before he had to suffer through a retort. This time, Jason looked around and realized they were in Titan Tower, the white walls and bleeping computers providing an almost burning contrast to the dim lighting of the previous memory.

"Thanks again for helping, Robin."

Dick turned a knowing glance toward his younger brother as a pink hue flushed his cheeks. "Donna," the young hero muttered.

Sure enough, there stood the Amazon herself, taller and more beautiful than Jason had remembered. God, he'd forgive whoever was behind this mindfuck right now if they just got to sit there with her for a few hours… or days.

"Sure thing," his younger self said, just as pink in the memory as he craned his neck up at her. Damn, why couldn't he have been older or taller? The hardly-impressive, barely five-foot fourteen-year-old was never going to win her over. Yet, she kept smiling at him, and Jason found himself still hoping she meant it.

His younger self cleared his throat, shaking some of the stars out of his eyes. "I better get going, though. Batman doesn't know I'm here and I'd rather not risk it. Unless he watched the whole thing on the television, in which case he's going to kick my ass."

"No he won't," a familiar voice said from the doorway. Nightwing, a bit worse for wear, smiled at his successor. "If the old man gives you any problems, just tell him to call me. I'll let him know it took you and the Titans together to help me out."

"Think that will fly?"

"Trust me. After I tell him how we couldn't have done it without you, he'll go easy."

Dick turned to his younger brother as their earlier selves smiled at one another. "Did it help?"

Jason, unable to hide his grin, shrugged. "Grounded for a week. No brutal beat down, though."

"When in the hell have I ever—" Bruce started.

"Don't think we don't know that some of the more intense sparring exercises happen right after we've pissed you off," Jason started. "And I _just_ saw you clock Dick across the face for whatever the hell reason."

Bruce huffed (as much as the big, bad bat _could_ huff) and Jason shook his head.

"Relax. It's a joke. You may think you're a badass and have half of Gotham pissing themselves, but you're not as tough as you think you are."

"I could say the same for you, chum."

Chum? Fucking hell, it had been years since Jason had heard that stupid little nickname directed at him. He felt his muscles tense, prepared to snap that he wasn't a kid anymore. What right did Bruce have to call him that, anyway? Yet, he sat there, letting the old name settle. Maybe a part of him appreciated it. Besides, after all this, he really did need to pick his battles, and old names were not worth a war.

It was obviously too good to be true that this game someone was playing would end well. After two memories that left the three of them feeling less destroyed, Jason sensed the mood changing as Titan Tower flickered to another memory. Though it looked exactly the same, there was something in the air that felt ominous.

"It's not a big deal… it happens all the time," a nasally teen boy said from the hallway.

"Come on, out with it. What happened?"

"Well, I can't be sure, but I think Jason Todd died."

"What?!"

Nightwing's voice boomed through the hallway, the young man hobbling from the medical bay to the main room, heading straight for the computer. A fresh cast was wrapped from his foot up to his knee, and he relied heavily on the cane in his right hand.

"Dick, where are you going?" asked Raven.

Nightwing continued to shove his way forward. "I have to find out."

Danny (at least, Jason thought that was his name…) trailed behind him, followed closely by the other Titans. "It says 'status unknown'. That's why I thought—"

"He's fine!" the first snapped, practically leaping to the computer, fingers flying through the keys at a breakneck speed. Screens and files opened and closed faster than anyone else could keep track. A hyperactive focus has overtaken Nightwing, his sole purpose in that moment was to find whatever it was he was looking for.

A small, yellow window popped up with Jason's picture as Robin. A list of traints ran through the screen: height, weight, age, birthdate, hair color, eye color, allergies, etc. Nightwing ignored all of them in favor of one in particular.

"Current status: unknown."

"See?" Danny said. "That's why I thought he was—"

Donna shook her head, putting her hand on the teen's shoulder. "Not now," she said.

"Batman would have more updated information. I've linked the Titan's computer with Batman's computer in the Batcave. I can access any information that's there." Nightwing continued to type furiously on the computer until another, almost identical window popped up.

"Dick," Kori said, approaching his side. "Calm down. There could be a mistake."

"If there is, _then_ I'll take it easy."

A few more keystrokes and, "Current status: deceased."

"No," Nightwing stared at the window in gut-wrenching denial. "No, no, no, no…"

Over and over, he repeated the word, shaking his head. His hands balled into fists, and he pressed them against his temples as his voice grew thick with emotion. The cane fell to the floor, the pain in his leg all but forgotten as a different sort of agony took hold.

Behind him, Raven and Victor stared at the screen in shock. A few of the others hunted for any answered as the computer continued to blink "deceased" over and over.

"He's dead?" Donna asked, eyes wide. "How old was he anyway?"

"Fifteen," Dick sobbed. "He was fifteen. He was only fifteen."

"See? I told you," Danny said.

Nightwing turned on his heel, spinning around faster than someone dealing with a severe leg injury and shock. "Shut up and show some damn respect!"

"What? He knew the risks going in," he said, stupidly approaching the computer. "We all do. It's all part of—"

No one got the chance to hear what it was all a part of. Instead, Nightwing grabbed for Danny.

"Dick, stop!" Kori yelled, rushing toward him.

"No, get back! I can't keep listening to this moron tell me that life is just another statistic! This is real life!" he snapped, pulling Danny nose-to-nose with him. "Not some James Bond spy story where the villains get blown away and the good guys _always _live. Jason should have lived!"

Jason sat there in shock. Hell, if Donna breezed past him right now he probably wouldn't have noticed. All he could see was Dick losing it on someone because of his death. Seeing him with muscles tensed, eyes red-rimmed with tears, it all felt so foreign to the man who thought his "older brother" couldn't give two damns about him.

"You cared?" he breathed out. "I never pegged you for giving a shit."

"Of course I cared," Dick said, shaking his head. "That's your problem, Jay. Everyone cared. Me, Bruce, Alfred, Babs… We always cared."

As much as he knew he should punch Dick for his statements, Jason found he lacked the strength or even the will. Just a couple of hours ago, he wouldn't have believed a damn word the big bird had said to him. Now, as he watched Nightwing lose it over his passing and sensed his father and brother tense beside him with the memory, he found there was some horrible truth to his words.

"Not anymore," he muttered, though it lacked the bitterness he typically felt. "Not after everything."

Dick shook his head. "Maybe especially after everything. We didn't just stop. You just need to get it through your thick skull."

"Sure," Jason rolled his eyes. "You mean that now—"

"I mean it always, Little Wing."

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**Just a bit more until they're all caught up. I guess we'll see what happens after this whole mess... Thanks again for all your reviews, favorites, and follows! I really appreciate them!**

**-Defective**


	5. Chapter 5

**This story is going on a bit longer than I had originally anticipated! Still expecting maybe 1-2 more chapters, but it's almost there. There are just so many memories I think they need to see. Anyway, we'll see what's left soon enough. Hope you all enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

"We know who they are now! Why keep doing this?"

His employer stared the man down with such cold eyes he thought he could feel his heart freezing in his chest. "The point isn't their identities. I have said this before and I will not say it again."

"Right. You want to see them suffer. We can do that with much more fun ways than having them cry about their feel—"

Icy steel cracked across his face before he could finish his thought. For a minute, he just sat there dumbly, his focus shaken. It took him another one to ensure their captors were still under control, and even another to register what had happened. Had… had he really just been slapped with a _sword_?

"You are not here to offer your input, much as you seem to believe otherwise. You are not here to second guess, to infer, to suggest, or do anything other than stay quiet and do as I have told you. Is this understood?"

The psychic reached his hand up, touching a small cut the sword had nicked into his cheek. "Understood."

* * *

For a little while, Jason could swear he felt the hell around them loosen. Maybe whoever was doing this to them had gotten enough of their rocks off and would let them go. Then he could go back to his safe house, take the longest shower known to man, and drink himself to oblivion. There was no way in hell he wanted to remember tonight. At least, he didn't think so…

As an inner war raged within him, he suddenly felt the familiar surge of pain. Great. Back to him? He lifted his head just enough to realize the others seemed to be in just as much agony. Jason managed an exasperated groan behind his clenched teeth. If this turned into some memory quilt for the three of them, he was going to torture, kill, revive, then kill again the person responsible.

"I didn't expect to see you again."

"I heard about Jason."

Jason turned to see Bruce tense at the exchange clearing in front of them. The clothes, the atmosphere, everything seemed so familiar. So… five minutes ago. If it weren't for the fact that Bruce had pushed this memory aside so adamantly, Jason may not have committed it to his own memory. Now, he turned to see Dick shift uncomfortably and realized this was his side of the event.

"You weren't at the funeral," the past Batman accused his past older brother.

"I was off world. I would have been there if I could have," he said, though his response was greeted with silence. "Come on, Bruce. Talk. Don't turn your back on me. I'm here now."

Batman sighed before peeling his cowl back. "You were lucky," he muttered. "When you didn't listen to me, your injuries weren't fatal. Of course, by the time I _properly_ trained you…"

The current Jason stared daggers at his father and brother. "Properly?"

"You had six months," Bruce replied.

"Compared to what?! He was Robin immediately!" He cringed somewhat at how damn childish he sounded, like he was a little brother jealous that his big brother got a better present. He forced the feeling down, narrowing his eyes.

"Immediately?" Dick asked. "I trained for four years as an acrobat then trained under Bruce."

"It sure as shit wasn't six months' worth of training."

"And, you don't think you needed more than that?" Bruce snapped. Suddenly, the younger man felt an all-too-familiar feeling of getting his ass handed to him. "More time to come to terms with everything you had been through? No one is blaming you for that, Jason. That's on me. You were tough and a scrapper. No one ever questioned your abilities in being able to take care of yourself. But you were never given enough training to _protect_ yourself. You leapt to protect others, but I never saw fit to train you to take care of yourself. You could handle yourself in a fair fight before I even met you, but I'll be damned if you know even now how to keep yourself safe."

Jason grit his teeth, ready to tear Bruce's head off for speaking to him like a child. Like he was _his_ child. Who the hell did he think he was anymore?

Oh, right… His adoptive father. It was so easy to forget with their masks on, but now there was nothing keeping that truth from bubbling to the surface.

Another shout at the scene ahead stole his attention away from the rising tension between the three present heroes.

The younger version of Dick was standing defensively, his fists clenched. "Are you blaming me?! I left so Jason replaced me, and because I left he died? That's not fair, Bruce! Jason wasn't me. You can't act like he was supposed to fall in line just like I had! Like he could pick up where I left off. Why did you let him become Robin before he was ready?!"

At that, a darkness fell over the grieving bat, and he reeled back and punched Dick square in the jaw. "Don't you dare blame me for Jason's death! Don't you dare!"

Dick collapsed onto the concrete floor of the Batcave, mouth split and jaw already preparing for a deep bruise. He had little time to recover, though, as Batman stormed toward him. Dick pushed himself onto his back and barely upright before the bat's rage started up again.

"Don't pretend to be concerned about Jason! You told me you resented that I had adopted him!"

"No! I just wanted to know why—"

"We've gone over this before, Dick. I'm not interested in continuing the conversation. I suggest you leave. Give your key to Alfred on your way out. I don't need a partner. I never should have had one, and I never will again."

Together, the three of them watched as the memory of Bruce stormed out of the cave, leaving his crumpled eldest son behind him. Slowly, Dick felt his jaw as he pulled himself to sit upright. As the seconds ticked by, he curled more and more into himself until he finally rested his arms on his knees, his face buried in them. The memory began to slip as the cave filled with Dick's soft, broken cries.

The three of them were quiet, stock-still as they absorbed what they had just witnessed, or re-witnessed. Dick stiffened his spine, holding his chin up while Bruce's own posture gave.

"Dick…" he started.

"It's fine. You were upset. We both were. It's over now."

While Jason was certain there were a few things in what they had said he should be yelling at them about, even threatening them over, he couldn't help but just feel… _bad._

"Well… fuck," he breathed out.

"He wasn't himself," Dick defended, though Jason was unsure which one of them he was defending Bruce to. "None of us were for a while. Your death changed things, Jason. Whether you believe me for not, at this point I couldn't give a damn. It took a long time to get over what happened, or 'over' as we could get."

"Until you replaced me, less than a year after I died," he muttered.

"You make things sound so much easier than they were."

Jason jolted, preparing to punch Dick just as he had seen Bruce do moments earlier. "You think it sounds easy?!"

"For you to think everything just got pushed under the rug?! That you died, we grieved a couple of days, and moved on? That you were a dead soldier that failed and that's it?! Yeah, that sounds easier than what else happened. When you came back, it had been three years since your death. You, what? Saw Tim was the new Robin and that was enough evidence that we didn't give a shit about you? You didn't need any other evidence than that?!"

"It wasn't just being replaced! Let's murder you, resurrect you, show you that someone else has taken **your** life, and the only thing you have to fucking show for it is a stone that says, 'Richard fucking Grayson was here'. Not so much as a damn mention in Titan Tower or anything! I wasn't just replaced, _Dick_. I was forgotten! Except for some sad trophy case in the cave and—"

"No one could forget you!"

Jason shook his head, Dick's words mirroring the Replacement's from their first meeting. "Except you did. Say as much as you want, Dick. You did."

"Enough," Bruce said.

Jason opened his mouth to argue, but the mixture of anger and sheer exhaustion over Bruce's face kept him silent. He stared at his father and clenched his jaw. An hour ago (at least, what felt like an hour ago…), he would have punched the hell out of the both of them before just stalking home and unloading a clip on an empty wall. Something about the recent visions changed all that.

A heavy silence fell over them, the room staying black and memoryless for a moment. Jason tried to use it to hold onto his anger and frustration, but felt it slipping through his fingers like a poisonous fog. After everything he had just witnessed, he knew now _maybe_ things weren't quite as cut and dry as he had originally believed.

"I get now I wasn't just forgotten," he conceded. "But I'm still the screw-up. I was never right then and I sure as shit ain't right now."

"What makes you think you weren't right then?" Bruce asked, turning to fully look at him.

"You fired me, didn't you? That's what this whole damn thing left off. I was fired before this whole shit show even started."

Bruce shook his head, pinching his temples for a moment. "I didn't fire you because you screwed up, Jason. I should have explained… If I had been better at being what you needed, none of this would have ever happened. I knew that when I hit Dick. Having him say it and me knowing how true it was… I couldn't handle it."

"Bruce," Jason started, exchanging a look with his brother. "You were—are—a good mentor. Not your fault if you picked a shitty sidekick. Though, the tire iron to the gut on our first meeting should have been a good indicator."

Bruce just shook his head once more. "You were a partner. I should never have used the word 'fire' for you. Either of you. You both needed time. Dick, you needed to figure out who you were without being under my shadow. I get that. But when you left you were so much a part of me that…"

The man sighed, still unable to get the words out. Not that he needed to. After years of being his partner, his student, his son, Dick just nodded and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder for a brief moment.

_I know. I get it. I love you, too_.

Bruce took a few more moments to get his breathing steady before he turned back to Jason. "I never should have used it for you because that's not what I was doing. Robin isn't a job and you weren't being pushed away from it. Robin is another part of you, just like it was another part of Dick, and just like it's another part of Tim and Damian. It's not my right to fire you from that. But, after recent events, I thought it would be best for you to get the help you needed and never got after your parents died. You couldn't be Robin if you needed to focus on Jason."

Jason took a shaky breath, looking away into the nothingness. "You could have told me."

"I could have done a lot of things, Jay. Is this why, when you returned, you—"

"Went off the deep end?"

The darkness began to morph again, and Jason wasn't sure if he should be irritated by it or relieved that it ended the conversation. A strange cold, damp air filled the area around them. Though the world was still black, there was something different about it. Jason looked around, though couldn't quite make out anything other than the smell of dirt and—

_Shit_.

"Where are we now?" Dick asked.

Before anyone could answer, a sharp, terrified scream pierced through the atmosphere, shaking the three heroes to the core. "BRUCE!" it screamed. Over and over, the young voice howled the name in between the muffled thudding of fists and feet against a hard surface.

"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," Jason muttered, lowering his head into his hands. He had nightmares about this scene. It woke him up in a terrified scream, his arms covered in raised welts from his scratching, his teeth aching from his clenched jaw. Even then, he only remembered highlights of it. To witness it again?

"We're in hell," he mumbled.

Bruce's voice, icy as the air around them, uttered, "Your coffin."

"That would be it."

An unnatural light filled the scene. Though the tuxedoed teen was still in pitch-black darkness, etherial glow allowed the three of them to watch as he struggled.

"BRUCE!" he screamed again.

Suddenly, a look came over him as a determination ingrained in him overtook his panic. "Calm down, calm down," he muttered to himself. "Not enough air. Need… need something sharp."

He reached into his pockets, elbows hitting against the top and sides of the coffin as he searched in vain for anything useful. Finally, he felt his belt and pulled it from his loops. Dick and Bruce watched in amazement as the fifteen-year-old, newly-resurrected boy who still bore his wounds from Ethopia began to fight his way out. They stared as the young teen ripped the buckle away from the leather and used it to tear into the fabric around the coffin. Once he has pushed all the satin and stuffing away, he used his nails to claw tracks into the wood, weakening its hold. In spite the force ripping his nails from their beds, blood dripping onto his face, the boy continued undeterred.

"Good God," Bruce whispered, putting his hand over his mouth.

"Jay…" Dick started, though his words were lost as the teen began to punch his way through the splintered, weakened wood.

Dirt began to pour into the coffin as the younger Jason took one last deep breath and fought his way out and through the six feet of dirt collapsing on top of him. With every inch, he struggled for a foothold, for air, for enough strength in spite of his injuries to just help him make it to the surface. If he could just get above ground, maybe then he could see Bruce. Yet, with every step up, with every moment without air, he could feel himself slipping until all that was left was a name and basic survival instincts.

After far too long without oxygen, a hand miraculously pushed through and pulled the rest of him out. Hands bloodied, eye swollen, every inch caked in dirt, he emerged a shell but alive. He collapsed into the muddy ground, catching his breath. His eyes rolled into the back of his head a time or two, and briefly the elder Jason remembered wanting to die again. Then that name came back into his head.

"Bruce," he uttered.

Slowly, the boy pushed himself off the ground in the pouring rain and wandered. Where he was going, he had no idea. He just heard noise to his right and following it seemed like the most logical choice if he was ever going to get to "Bruce".

It took hours for someone to find him, walking like a zombie along the side of the country highway. The black night transformed from the damp, cold darkness to flashing red and blue and then to a sterile, bright white.

"Bruce," he managed once more in between a random mumbled word here and there.

He was lying down again, and though the destroyed child had no recollection of where he was or what these people around him were talking about, the three heroes recognized the hospital, knew he was on a bed being wheeled into surgery as doctor began listing off his various injuries.

"Multiple lacerations, broken ribs, broken femur, dislocated shoulder, collapsed lung, internal bleeding…" On and on it went.

Together with another surgeon, they washed their hands and arms and looked at the poor creature through the windows into the operating room. "Who is Bruce?" the second asked.

The first sighed, halting in his movements. "If I heard him right, he said he's his father."

Darkness took over once again, and Jason let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. He supposed he could think about how breathing provided such a comfort to him now after seeing such a horrific moment of him being deprived of it, but talking was proving difficult. Especially when he could feel both Dick and Bruce staring at him.

"You wanted me there," Bruce managed. "That's the second time you needed me to save you and I wasn't there."

Jason shook his head and turned to look at him fully. "I didn't want you to save me. You were my dad. I just wanted you to _be_ there."

* * *

**Thanks again for reading! Your reviews/favorites/follows definitely help to keep me going!**

**-Defective**


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